Treasury

Don’t believe everything you hear, starting a few years ago, and you probably have some of the money you earned — at least, that which isn’t expropriated to bail out the crooks at Goldman Sachs (secret slogan: “doing our best to confirm paranoia about worldwide Jewish banking cabals!”) through a brute force assault on your tax dollars in the finest tradition of bipartisan schnookery.

So I have this IRA. It’s not a whole IRA, just a fraction of one. A fraction of mine, to be specific.

My broker — the same nice fella who told me not to invest in Harley Davidson at nine bucks a share — periodically advises me of its progress. It seems like every time I hear from him lately, my IRA is up a double-digit percentage over the preceding twelve months. At this rate, it will achieve the value it had three years ago by the time I retire. That should pay for a modest coffin, at any rate.
Ha! Retire! I crack me up, I do.

So I have these hulking, electrically-powered machines. Don’t hang up on me yet; this isn’t the non-sequitur it appears to be. I have a vintage motorcycle. I have a couple of old trucks, and drawers full of absurdly overpriced hand tools — drawknives and chisels and planes, oh my!

One of the machines I husband is a table saw. On it, I lavished much of the lovely bequest received from my grandparents. Cost me fifteen hundred bucks, and a fair bit of real estate in our crowded garage. Because my grandparents were wise and their gift was modest enough for a tax-free transfer, I was able to write them a note telling them what that three-horsepower Unisaw meant to me while they were still alive.

Grandma was the crafty grand- who framed in windows and assembled verandas, while Grandpa did the Clydesdale work. From her I received a Rockwell saber saw and a vintage Skilsaw with a cabinetmaker’s blade; from Grandpa, a gear-drive Homelite chainsaw. My Unisaw hasn’t yet done everything I promised Grandma in that letter, but it’s accounted for a few pieces of furniture, several utility cabinets, a shed and a carport; it also ripped every stick of maple flooring in this house.

It’s not done yet. With occasional adjustments, paste wax on the iron table and regular blade changes, the table saw in our garage should last until I pass it down to my grandkids. In the meantime, its resale value has maintained about what I paid for it.

The one-inch hollow chisel mortiser hasn’t done nearly as much work for me — I rejoined the Reserves, deployed, returned and divorced shortly after buying it — but it’s done brilliantly in the market. Very soon, I’ll use it for dozens of joints in our custom kitchen-to-be, adding significant value to the house, but that’s not how I beat the market.

While the stock market rose, so did the retail prices of General mortisers. When the market crashed, the value of quality Things (as opposed to imaginary what-ifs) remained high. That good piece of iron, manufactured in Canada before we needed passports to visit, commands a price nearly 60 percent higher than what I paid for it.

In the driveway sits a 1954 Chevy 3100 half-ton truck, for which I paid a thousand bucks and spent another 800 or so for fiddly bits and paint, after sandblasting it and filling the holes. The engine, rebuilt by my stepdad, runs great and holds perfect oil pressure. Everything is stock. Stock trucks are much more reliable than stock certificates.

This one has taken me all over the West, rattling along at a safe and sane 45 mph, one elbow on the window and my right hand snuggled over its perfect shift knob. It has hauled lumber, limestone, dirt and dreams in flagrant violation of the terms of its collector vehicle plates, which allow only occasional pleasure driving.

What of it? I take pleasure in every such occasion.

Sitting pretty on whitewalls, the old truck’s probably worth a good ten grand now; twelve if I wash it. That soaring ROI almost makes up for the plummet in my IRA. If my plans and health hold up, I’ll throw new bed wood into it and it will go to my daughter long before probate becomes an issue. After all, she should inherit something, right?

Sporting a factory four-speed and 18.5-mpg “Thriftmaster Six” engine, the little yellow Chevy will stay useful even as its collector value rises.

I won’t need a truck by then. My back won’t be up to much more than an occasional bimble around the block on my old bike, a 1969 BMW, last of the fabled R69S models.

Eventually, even that will be too much for me, and I’ll need more attentive care. No worries, though: it’s worth more than the truck and its going up faster. Should be enough in that kitty to buy a lethal dose of happy pills if end-of-life treatment from the Veterans Administration becomes unbearable.

There’s only one fly in the ointment. The Beemer needs new points and steering head bearings, and parts for old bikes come dear. Time to cash in that worthless, paper IRA and care for things well-made and simple.

I would have done it years ago if I hadn’t been so busy listening to the experts.